Chapter 5
The sad fact was that, despite her annoyance, misgivings, and general reluctance, Sarah was Mr. Eston’s wife. As Mr. Eston’s wife, she was subject to his rules, and one of those rules, however much she disliked it, was that they were to sleep in the Duke’s Suite.
Since her father never came to Chavensworth, and since it was the largest chamber at the estate, Mr. Eston’s proposition made some sense.
However, Sarah gave orders to have a cot moved into the room.
Just because Mr. Eston insisted they sleep in the same room did not mean she agreed they should sleep in the same bed.
She requested a tray to be served in her sitting room, thereby removing from the staff any temptation to prepare a bridal dinner, or an intimate meal for her and her new husband. She didn’t fool herself that they had been kept ignorant of Mr. Eston’s presence or role.
“Have you served Mr. Eston?” she asked the footman when he delivered her meal.
The young maid behind him tittered in response. When she glanced at the girl, she bobbed a curtsy and flushed, both accomplished at exactly the same time.
“Begging your pardon, Lady Sarah. Mr. Eston thanked us kindly.”
Why did the girl find it necessary to giggle when making that statement?
She dismissed them both, concentrating on her meal.
In actuality, she had little appetite, but she managed a few greens and something Cook had prepared, no doubt of a celebratory nature.
The beverage consisted of a measure of white wine, currants, and grated ginger, sweetened with sugar and topped off with a sprinkling of lemon rind.
She liked it so much that she considered ringing for more but reasoned that it was not the wisest course.
Being a reluctant bride should not be compounded by being a tipsy one as well.
Once she was finished with her meal, she withdrew her journal from its spot on her secretary and spent several moments in earnest writing. Only then did she summon Florie to help her prepare for bed.
“I am married, Florie,” she said, when the girl arrived. “I am married, and I do not wish to discuss it. Not now, not tomorrow, not next month.”
Florie said nothing, but it was clear, from her openmouthed expression, how surprised she was.
Nearly as surprised as Sarah.
None of Sarah’s sleeping garments were outlandish or revealing, but she still felt conspicuously uncovered in her linen nightgown and matching wrapper.
Of white linen, with pink piping, it was perfectly proper.
Unless, of course, one was going to a bedchamber occupied by a man one had only recently met—and married.
Once Florie left the room, Sarah surveyed her reflection in the pier glass. If she stood in front of the light, the shape of her limbs was visible. Since she had no other garments of a sturdier nature, there was nothing more to be done. She would simply have to remain covered at all times.
She left her chamber and walked down the corridor, with shoulders squared and head held high.
Mr. Eston opened the door to the Duke’s Suite at her knock and silently stood aside.
“Your cot has arrived,” he said.
What a very strange voice he had. Not simply the inflection of his words but the tone of it as well.
“Do you sing, Mr. Eston?”
He looked at her as if she’d lost her wits.
“I was asking because of your voice. You have a very deep voice. We have a great many baritones in our Christmas choir. You might consider joining it.”
He shook his head, and she had the impression that he considered her odd, perhaps eccentric.
“It’s a very good choir, Mr. Eston,” she said, frowning at him.
“I’m quite certain it is, but I don’t sing.”
She was left with nothing to say, which meant that she had no choice but to enter the Duke’s Suite.
Indigo draperies, the same shade as the coverlet, covered the many floor-to-ceiling windows. The four-poster bed, sitting on its dais, was swathed in the same material.
The round carpet covering the mahogany floorboards was woven with a deep border in indigo and lavender chains. Lavender, honoring the first crop ever to be planted at Chavensworth, was also replicated on the pillows of the upholstered chairs beside the window and the embroidery on the coverlet.
On the far wall was the defining feature of the room, a series of cupboards with gold-leaf fronts.
Each cabinet bore a scene from Chavenworth’s history, from the planting of the first lavender beds to the building of the house itself.
The gilt required constant maintenance and delicate handling, so that it didn’t flake and peel from the wood.
“Do you really intend to spend the night on a flimsy cot?” he asked from behind her.
“Unless you give me leave to return to my room,” she answered quite amiably.
“Do you need my leave?”
He was, like it or not, her husband. But this union would not be dictated solely by his rules but also by her wishes.
That, she’d decided in the two days she’d been locked in her room.
If he did not like it, Mr. Eston could simply go away, leaving her in the not-unwanted state of being married with no husband in sight.
However, it was one thing to make such a decision in her own room and quite another to do so in his presence.
“I think it would be best if we began this marriage in the traditional way,” he said.
She clasped her hands together, making a fist of the two of them. How very cold she was.
“I will not bed you,” she said.
Would it become a contest of more than wills between them?
He was a very large man, and although she was taller than most of her acquaintances, she could not best him in strength.
Would he force her? Surely not. He had seemed like a gentleman upon their first meeting.
And he had been kind and polite enough in the carriage.
But did his surface veneer rub off in the bedroom?
Would he expose himself as a vicious and horrid man?
“In New South Wales,” he said, striding across the room, “the aborigines do not sleep together for at least three nights.”
She frowned at him. She didn’t know whether to satisfy her curiosity or drop the subject entirely.
Talking to him, however, kept her attention from what he was doing, and what he was doing was undressing in front of her.
He didn’t even take the precaution of stepping behind the screen erected in the corner for just such a purpose.
No, Douglas Eston was above such sensibilities or beyond them.
He was removing his waistcoat, then his shirt, divesting himself of his clothing with such an insouciant attitude that she suspected he had done so many times before.
“You’re very comfortable undressing in front of strange females, aren’t you?”
“You are my wife. I believe you should become accustomed to it.”
Well, she was very much not going to become accustomed to it, regardless of what he said. She deliberately turned and stared at the opposite wall.
“What are aborigines?”
“The native people of New South Wales. It’s located on the other side of the world.”
“I know where New South Wales is,” she said. “I’m very well-read. I’ve just never heard the term aborigine.”
“Their habits are no odder than this union of ours, Your Ladyship.”
“I’m not to be addressed in that fashion,” she said. “It’s Lady Sarah. Or my Lady.”
“I would prefer Sarah,” he said. “Despite the fact that you’re the daughter of a duke.”
“I had absolutely nothing to do with the circumstances of my birth,” she said.
“And if you had? Would you have changed anything? Or would you have preferred, instead, to have been born at a different time? A handmaiden to Cleopatra, perhaps?”
“Why couldn’t I have been Cleopatra herself?” she asked, staring into the maw of the fireplace.
“Do you see yourself as royalty?”
She considered the question for some seconds before she answered him. “There is a great deal of responsibility to being royal,” she said. “For that matter, there is a great deal of responsibility to being the daughter of a duke.”
“Especially the Duke of Herridge.”
She merely inclined her head in agreement.
The silence stretched between them for a few moments. She heard sounds like fabric rubbing together and wondered if he was taking off his trousers. The sound of a shoe dropping was loud enough that she jumped, startled, before admonishing herself sternly to remain motionless.
Then there was nothing. No sound at all, unless she counted her own breathing. But in the bathing room, there was water splashing, then the gurgle of the drain.
Was she going to stand here like a ninny for the entire time it took for him to ready himself for bed?
He emerged from the bathing chamber and she nearly turned around before remembering that he would be naked, of course. He should be attired in a nightgown, as was proper, but somehow she doubted he would be.
“Will you not share the bed with me, Lady Sarah? It looks comfortable, at least, and certainly large enough. You can occupy one half, and I shall occupy the other.”
“I shall be quite happy on my cot,” she said. Her voice sounded perfectly normal and without a betraying quiver to it. Years of standing before her father and hiding her true emotions had made her quite adept at managing fear.
“A pity, then,” he said.
She heard him plump up the pillows, then the squeak of the mattress straps as he sat on the bed.
“Do you want me to leave the light on?”
“That is not necessary,” she said. “I can settle myself perfectly well in the dark. There is nothing in the dark that wasn’t there in the night.”
She was startled to hear him chuckle.
“Do you think this situation amusing, Mr. Eston?”
“I think you are vastly amusing,” he said. “More than you could ever imagine.”
She didn’t know whether to be affronted or relieved. Surely a man who was amused by a woman could not be intent upon ravishing her?